Death transformed, eventually, through the course
of many dreams, his scythe divided, turned to talons,
his black cowled cloak to wings. His relentless pacing
became a gathering of fallen twigs of faith. He wove
a nest — it is within this that I rest, soul-embryo
encased in corporeal shell. When body becomes too
brittle, weakened, fragile to withstand the stretching
of my spirit, when it is no longer strong enough
to hold me, I will hatch. I am not yet fully formed
and ready, but these cracks no longer scare me.

After Luisa A. Igloria’s “Arguments with destiny: 21

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